The donativo spirit
He looked like Hagrid, the man sitting at the table next to me at a modest café in some little village along the Camino Portuguese. He was very big, excessively hirsute, and wrapped in a massive dark brown cloak. I looked down at his feet: gnarled, filthy, encased in rope sandals. He was either a serious (very) Old School peregrino, or he was a dedicated reenactor. I didn’t have the opportunity--or the temerity--to find out. He stared at his plate, ate a lot, and quickly, then grabbed his walking staff, which appeared to be the limb of a tree he had picked up along the way, and left.
Back when pilgrims looked like that guy, those who walked The Way of St, James were priests and monks, devout Christians and assorted sinners, even, occasionally, nuns. Back before hotels and hostels and albergues, pilgrims bedded down in pilgrim “hospitals” built by religious orders, or in monasteries and convents, churches, private homes, and farms. Pilgrims were seen not only as travelers but also as representatives of Christ. Welcoming them, providing a bed and a meal, was both a charitable act and a spiritual duty. These accommodations were “donativos.” Those providing the services asked for nothing in return, although pilgrims might leave small gifts or modest donations.
Today’s pilgrims, in their Hoka Speedgoat 6s and their Sea to Summit Ultra-nano ponchos, are a far cry from the peregrinos of yore. Modern-day Camino pilgrimages are different too, ranging from solitary contemplative journeys to fully curated “active vacations” with pals. But there is one tradition that remains: the donativo.
While the well-developed medieval system of religious-based donativos is gone, that culture still lives. These days, donation-based accommodations along The Way are sometimes supported by churches, but more often run by local villagers or ex-pat Camino veterans who moved to those villages to live by the donativo ethos. They are more than places to find shelter and food. They are places that—how to state this without hyperbole?—envelop you with kindness and community, with generosity of spirit, with, really, all that is (or can be) beautiful about us humans.
This fall, when I walked a section of the Norte, I stayed at two such places. One, in the town of Colombres, was a pretty, red-tile roofed house with a yard in full fragrant bloom and an inviting terrace. The small room was a delight. The pristine bathroom was a delight. But it was even more of a delight to get to know the owner, an energetic Slovakian who loved the Camino so much as a pilgrim that he figured out how to come back and make it his life. As we sat down for the communal meal—a vegetarian feast, and I mean feast—he introduced us, one by one, with personal anecdotes and quirky insights. He had talked to, and listened to, all nine of us individually as arrived that day. We were an instant community. He made us so. There was a donation box on the wall of the dining room. I think he may have mentioned it once.
A few days later, veering off the Camino because I had read about this newly opened donativo, I found myself in Duesos at a beautifully refurbished old stone house with an extensive garden (apples! figs! chickens!), sunset views, free laundry, and two quietly gracious Spanish hosts, both of whom were Camino veterans. The large room with eight bunkbeds was configured to feel cozy. The mattresses were soft. The communal meal, a lively affair (16 people from 12 different countries) was, again, a feast: thick lentil soup, fresh-baked bread, local olive oil, and salad from the garden. I don’t remember the hosts pointing out the small donation box on the wall.
It is hard to express—but I am trying!--what it feels like to be in the donativo bubble, outside the culture of capitalism, to be around those who give freely and without expectation, to be one who receives with gratitude, to donate with deep pleasure, to feel instant fellowship.